


It’s Been a Pleasure

by edoori



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Both of these men have had a tough time and they deserve to have each other, Gen, Give them little a love and affection, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No beta we die like mne, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23101096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edoori/pseuds/edoori
Summary: He had never before sought the man out for pleasant company – banter, maybe, an easily influenced spar of wits – but never just to shoot the shit or talk about the weather.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60





	1. Part I, Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> An age of man has passed since I last struck into the realm of fanfiction — especially for this fandom in particular, which happens to have been the first I ever found myself sucked into. My tastes have certainly changed since those days, and many of my written works from that time have been expunged from the internet (which I am incredibly thankful for). 
> 
> But, at least a decade later, I find my love for Fullmetal rekindled, and I remember just how much I cared for these characters in the first place. After digging back into fanfiction these past few years, I finally feel ready to attempt another story — focusing on none other than Edward and Roy.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy my depictions of these two ridiculous, fantastic boys.

_Edward Elric_

There was a dream that Edward often suffered through, in which he found himself among the damp ash and rubble of his childhood home, trudging through the deep mud and crumbling stones beneath a falling sky. The clouds would drop thick and grey and roiling above the bare tree tops, tearing at their limbs until the wood moaned and ached. He could wander aimlessly for hours, if he found the strength, desperate and scouring through the debris until his steel limbs swelled and burst beneath the strain. Somehow, he always found himself in the garden — beside a tombstone of pebbles and twigs marking what could have been a rabbit, or a mouse, or a cat, it didn’t much matter — dragging the sparking remnants of copper circuitry and rusted screws. His knee would buckle and he would gouge a hole in the earth as he fell, cutting through soil and burying himself deep. The wet ground would swell and swallow, and as he sunk beneath he would see it — the form of his brother as he last saw him, plump and soft as children are, eyes wide and pleading as they caught Edward’s fearful gaze. The child’s mouth would split open and soil would sweep out, his small body sinking beneath the ground amidst the roots of old tomato vines and wilting flowers. 

Before he could scream, Edward would wake — his brother’s stolen voice spilling from his own cracked lips. It was in this way that he found himself awake now, having jolted upright from the damp and twisted linens of a hospital cot. Only his dream had been different, this time. His brother had not been the young child from seven years prior who had been stripped of materiality and constructed alone within the nothingness of Truth’s domain. Instead, he had been of that form just pulled free, that emaciated frame with stretched thin skin and pale hair veiling his hollow face. The rest was the same, but the fear was ever stronger this go around.

Especially when his brother rested in that form just a few steps away — Alphonse Elric, laid out in a hospital bed among thick quilts and a threaded puzzle of wires and tubes. 

Ed listened closely to the drone of the monitors and machines, a steady and rhythmic beat to which his heart rate matched pace, slowing itself from the erratic staccato of the post night terror adrenaline rush. He exhaled heavily, chest deflating and spine curling in so he might rest his forehead on his knees. He tapped it there lightly, jostling the shadows of the nightmare in his mind so he may flush out every remnant of the awful memory. It was dirty work, stuffing the rancid shit that was a true manure pail of trauma into an insignificant dump. Maybe he’d come back to clean it up later. Probably not.

His arm had begun to tingle. Ah, the right arm, that is — he had to specify now, which was a new and slightly overwhelming prospect. Or maybe it was less overwhelming, and more so unthinkable to the point of not being recognized or processed in any form. But it was his right arm that had begun to sting and twitch, wrapped up in a sling of soft cloth and cotton that he had meant to remove before passing out cold, but had blatantly neglected. He should unwrap it now to promote a little blood flow, but that would limit his ability to escape the shitty cot and the nest of his nightmare, so he practiced clenching and stretching his fingers instead.

The muscles and tendons within the appendages — and really, the limb as a whole — were weak and strained. The physical therapy he had been prescribed was scheduled to last for several weeks, likely a situation made worse by his physical efforts during the last leg of the unique antics of the Promised Day. He wouldn’t say he regretted exacerbating the damage, considering the circumstances, but the hospital sentence he was subjected to in the aftermath certainly tempted him to reconsider the finer details. 

It helped, at least, to know that he would have been here regardless, because Alphonse was notably unresponsive. He had seemed well enough on the battlefield as the dust fell and the chaos devolved into a hodge-podge chain of supply and demand, soldiers and familiar officers commanding some semblance of order to put the space to rights. But, somewhere in the midst of that new flurry of action, he had slumped heavily in Edwards arms and gone terrifyingly limp. Reasonably, Ed had lost his shit, and his pride certainly wasn't so weak as to deny that his heart had stopped. He'd collapsed then and there, Alphonse cradled carefully in his severely unlike arms as he pressed his fingers carefully against thin flesh, searching for a pulse. It was there, beating featherlight and quickly enough to intensify the wave of panic that followed. He had tried to lift his brother himself, a map of Central City sprawling out in his mind, a path to the nearest hospital lifted from memory — but his miracle arm had faltered under Al's (in)significant weight, a spasm so strong and startling shooting from shoulder to fingertip. He'd scoured the courtyard instead, searching frantically for a familiar face. 

He'd spotted Sig, then. The Curtis' were standing aloft, spine's tall and proud amidst the flurry of blue coats. Izumi had one of her fists clenched in the fabric of her husband's slacks, and he in turn had kept a heavy hand on her shoulder as they surveyed the grounds. Edward struggled to shout across the yard, throat clenched tight enough that his first attempt resulted in little more than a pathetic, _choking_ sound. His second try caught Izumi's ear, and her head had lashed to the side, eyes bearing down on the brother's even from a distance. The two were running before Ed could shout again, and he'd pushed Alphonse miserably towards Sig as soon as the man knelt ear enough. Izumi threaded a stable arm beneath Ed's shoulder, barking at a poor and unsuspecting soldier rushing by, demanding an escort to the nearest hospital. Frightened by the venom in her tone, the soldier complied, and Edward stared through the threat of burning tears as Alphonse remained motionless in Sig's grasp.

The soldier led them to little more than a large tent, at first, and Edward cradled his shaking arm to his chest as Sig — Sig, who he'd never heard raise his voice outside of thunderous laughter — rocked the frazzled company with a cry for help. From there, it had been a flurry of hands and shouting and shrieking on Izumi's part, before the lot was loaded into the crowded bed of a military vehicle and transported swiftly to Central's military hospital. It had been filling quickly by the time they arrived, bloodied bodies collapsed on waiting room chairs or sprawled out in the hall while nurses tended to their aches and pains. The hospital would continue to fill, even as Sig was spirited away with Alphonse in arms, Edward held tightly back by his teacher while his little brother disappeared down a long and blinding hallway. His memory falters here, little more than the image of peeling linoleum and the feeling of Izumi's hands gripping his shoulders tight. Eventually, he'd been led to a room with a single bed, wherein he was forcefully tucked into a sad and irritating quilt and medicated to the point of a short coma.

Despite the numerous cases of injuries sustained by soldiers in company, the Elric Brothers had been the first patients to require admittance. When Edward next awoke, it was to Sig's calm and sedated face, who told him first that Alphonse was alive and well before devolving into a quick and disjointed explanation of the events he'd missed. There was a mess of bureaucratic nonsense muddying their circumstances, doctors and nurses appalled and mystified at the state of Alphonse's condition and Edwards sudden limb regeneration. At first, their curiosity and demands for information had been quelled by Izumi's fire, beaten into submission by her determination to see the boys tended to promptly. Shortly following, as the Curtis' were pushed further and further from the rooms of the Elrics by stubborn and omniscient medical professionals, a letter typed finely and signed extravagantly by one Olivier Mira Armstrong culled their banishment and the prying questions of the medical staff. Izumi had brandished the letter proudly, having secured the letter herself (which Edward hoped to hear about, sometime in the future) and knowing that it demanded confidentiality on behalf of the brothers and employed temporary guardianship to the Curtis couple. How the hell the General had secured that sort of decree was beyond Edward's understanding, but he accepted the circumstances with palpable gratitude.

The days that followed were dominated by Edward's need to see his brother. While the Curtis' had remained for some time and did their best to quell Edward's worry and obsession and ensure that his own condition was seen to, it wasn't long before their obligations in Dublith pulled them away. It was a surprisingly emotional affair when they left, assurances made that the brothers would see them as soon as they were able and that the Curtis' would drop in at a moments notice if they were needed, but then Edward was left with no one capable enough to tackle his stubborn and immoveable determination to be by his brother's side.

Now, as he rose unsteadily from his rickety cot and cradled his relatively useless arm, it had been a full twelve days since the eclipse had passed. Alphonse still slept soundly, fed by a tube that had been struck through his abdomen and into his stomach, kept hydrated by an IV drip stuck into one of his pale, near translucent arms. His breathing, at least, seemed relatively stable, although an oxygen mask had been strapped across his nose and mouth regardless. All in all, the setup was unnerving. Edward often found himself grimacing at the sight, just as he did now as he stepped close to his brother’s bedside. He seemed so awfully small like this, and impossibly vulnerable — which he had considered his brother in the past, sure, but not like this. 

He had taken it upon himself to co-opt many of the nurse’s duties. He changed linens and bandages as necessary, sterilized the sensitive points in which needles and tubes prodded through skin, and bathed his little brother with a soft, sterile cloth and lukewarm water, and dried him with a towel much the same. He hadn’t been able to wash his brother’s mess of long, wheat blond hair, but he had managed to sit atop the bed one morning with Al’s head resting in his lap (which he had been yelled at for, of course, but damn if he hadn’t read the charts and files to make sure it was physically safe to do in the first place) and brush through the knots and tangles with a great deal of patience and care. He’d braided it all, afterwards, although it was noticeably sub par work compared to the plait Ed usually wore himself. He supposed that was natural, with one hand being significantly less fatty and dexterous. 

Edward used his left hand now — tanned to a golden brown by the heavy rays of the sun, and marred by an impossible number of pale scars — to brush the stray hair out of his brother’s face, unveiling his still and sleeping features. His chest was rising and falling softly, quilts shifting ever so slightly. But he didn’t move of his own accord, just as he hadn’t for several days and nights now.

Edward would be lying if he said it didn’t frighten him. He had been devastated before, he had been enraged before, he had been afraid — but he had never been quite so...lost. 

This wasn’t a criminal or a homunculus that he could take a metal fist to, or a roadblock or a collapsing building he could restore with a few concentric circles and a whole lot of mental math. This was unknown, this was completely out of his control. 

( _It reminded him a bit of being a young boy, opening the door to his warm home and following a trail of spattered tomatoes to the prone and sickly form of his mother. There was nothing he could do._ )

It would likely do him some good to go back to sleep. He was significantly lacking a good night’s rest, instead collecting a strange array of hours and minutes here and there. At first, it had just been the result of anxiety, and perhaps a bit of excitement to see his brother in the flesh. But, eventually, the sleeplessness had been caused more so by a growing paranoia, a biting and tearing at the back of his mind, little voices telling him awful things and inspiring a myriad of nightmares. When he slept, it wasn’t pleasant. He kept waking up in bouts of silent screams.

It was easier, instead, if he pulled the shitty hospital cot as close to Alphonse’s bedside as it could possibly be. He got comfortable atop it, and pulled a scientific journal free from a pile that had been left on a table in the corner of the room. He flipped it open to a page on alchemical applications in biological research laboratories — something he was sure his brother would have perused — and read aloud until the morning sun broke through the eastern window. 

* * *

It was by no choice of his own that Edward found himself frowning in the crawling cafeteria lineup. He had spent his morning as he usually did, prowling Alphonse's hospital room as the morning nurse came in to check his brother’s vitals, to make notes on her little clipboard chart and otherwise do nothing at all. He was stable, of course, which was good — but despite how well he seemed to be fairing, there were still no changes to Al’s unconscious state. It was getting to be too much for Edward to bear. He had become a bit of a hurricane for the remainder of the morning, accosting the hospital staff without meaning to, changing linens and meticulously cleaning the room when it wasn’t wholly necessary (and otherwise threatening anyone who challenged him), until he eventually began to tear through the alchemical journals nearby with an undue rage and a thick black marker. 

His mania had come to a head when the noon time nurse had arrived, and tried insisting that Edward take some time for himself — leave the space that he had otherwise trapped himself within and take a deep breath. But Edward had been absolutely shredding a particularly bullshit theory, and he’d drawn a mess of corrections and alterations across loose pages and scattered papers. He had entered a shouting match with the nurse — less about having been asked to leave, more about nothing at all, just misplaced frustration and a hyper fixation on the circles and runes he’d re-etched — until he insisted he had important work to be doing _right here_ , and had tried to clap his hands together and slam them atop a circle he’d drawn to hammer in the point.

The jolt had made his weak arm throb, the blood flowing in his veins a steady and continued ache that steadily rose to his ears and dulled the noise in his head. 

Nothing happened, of course.

His hands remained plastered on the hospital floor for a while. He’d traced the outlines of his (trembling) fingers with his eyes, not really seeing, numb in the sudden beating silence.

The nurse hadn’t said anything at all, but Edward eventually conceded with a smart and relatively empty remark, leaving behind his manic mess and his baby brother.

The cafeteria was the first place he had drifted to. He hadn’t eaten, not since the evening beforehand, and his stomach had begun to growl at a volume that surprised near passersby. He was staring intently at the selection of cold beverages he had come to, debating between a few different flavours of pressed juice (and, of course, refusing to acknowledge the presence of any dairy product that may or may not have been in attendance) with a tray of fries and a loaded burger already in hand, when he felt someone step awfully close to his right side. His shoulder tensed — which, frustratingly, really fucking hurt — and he swung his head to meet the eye of whoever had snuck upon him.

He genuinely hadn’t been expecting Riza Hawkeye in all of her hospital gown glory.

“Edward,” she seemed to affirm aloud, a soft grin lifting her cheeks. Her hair was down and spilled forward over her shoulders, somewhat obscuring the wrap of bandages coiled around her throat. Thankfully, they appeared to be absolutely pristine, and a padding of cloth poked through the edges. Edward really hoped that it wasn’t too terribly uncomfortable — all of the bandages he’d been wrapped up in throughout his lifetime, and he had never gotten over the itch. He was glad to have surpassed the need for the short gauze strips taped to his cheek and forehead just a few days ago. 

“Lieutenant,” he smiled back, genuinely glad to see that she was alright, “what are you doing here?”

“Stretching my legs, grabbing a bite. You would think the damage had been done elsewhere, considering how adamant they are about keeping me in bed.” Her tone was almost rueful, the laughter she didn’t let out dancing in her eyes instead, and Edward couldn’t help but bark out a short laugh on her behalf. The man ahead of him — in business attire, a charcoal suit and a pressed white collar – stepped to the register with a tray full of leafy greens and yogurt. A part of Ed recoiled, and he kept his attention fixed on Hawkeye, who seemed content to carry on a friendly conversation. “I haven’t seen you around before now,” she prodded, “were you finally convinced to leave your brother’s bedside?” 

At that, Edward couldn’t help but grimace openly, features painted in outward disgust. The Lieutenant was absolutely tickled by the response and laughed rather heartily into an open palm, eyes scrunching in delight. She lasted a good several moments before the laughter divulged into short coughs, and her palm closed into a fist held at her lips. Edward was startled to hear her laugh, at first — it was something he had never heard before, although he had assumed in many occasions that her cold and dry remarks concealed amusement. And he had certainly never heard her laughter break. He stuttered, and helplessly reached his left arm around to pat...at her shoulder. He’d been aiming for her back, but couldn’t quite reach. She waved him off appreciatively regardless, smile slightly crooked now.

“Forgive me, my airway is still a little bruised.” She massaged her throat carefully with one hand, pushing her tray forward with the other. Ed faltered, moving along the line to the waiting register. The woman there leveled a blank look at his tray and punched a few keys on her machine, reading it off stoically when the numbers ceased to change. Ed fumbled with a few cenz, struggling to fish them out of his pocket with only one functional hand. Hawkeye didn’t move to help, nor did she insist that he hurry — a stubborn part of him was grateful. The last thing he needed, on top of all else, was pity from a comrade in arms. 

By the time he had paid, he took his light tray in his good hand and stepped to the side, out of line but just near enough to continue the conversation. Hawkeye spoke to Edward as she handed over her own payment, no struggle and no rush involved.

“He’s still sleeping, then?” 

Ed sighed dramatically, balancing the edge of his tray on his left hip and holding it in place with an outstretched arm. He ended up gesturing animatedly with his right arm, bouncing the sling as his fingers stretched and curled. “He’s been like this since we got here — stable, doing okay, as far as the staff here can tell — but he hasn’t shown any sign of waking up. And no one can wake him up, because they don’t know why he’s still asleep.”

“I’m sure they’ve assumed it’s something akin to physical exhaustion,” Hawkeye tried, moving away from the lunch line with a tray of apple slices, peanut butter, and a bottle of water, “A side effect of the malnourishment, perhaps?”

Ed huffed. “Probably, but they can’t exactly prove it. Nothing is concrete.” He hissed out the last word, throwing his eyes to the ceiling and cursing under his breath. Hawkeye watched him as he did so, her careful eyes tracing the deep set wrinkles on his brow and the heavy bruises under his eyes. She was surprised to see the sling still cradling his arm, as well. She was sure he would have been barreling obnoxiously through his physical therapy course, building mass and muscle as quickly as he could to get the arm up to par. Instead, he seemed to have neglected the case entirely. She wanted to be surprised, but found it made sense, considering his focus on the absent Alphonse. She glanced down at the tray in her hands, and a curious thought came to her unbidden. 

“Edward.” She started, and the brother’s eyes met hers in a fraction of a moment. He cocked his head, curious as to her tone, and raised a brow at her grin. “Why don’t you take this tray back to the Colonel, and I’ll spend some time looking after your brother.”

Edward blinked owlishly before his mouth curved down into a half frown, and he gestured at the tray in her hands. “That’s for the Bastard? He's still here?” 

The Lieutenant nodded, “Mm, unfortunately. Things have been unexpectedly...complicated, as of late. As such, he couldn’t quite grab this himself," she sighed and lifted her cafeteria tray marginally. 

Edward didn’t necessarily find himself thrilled by the prospect of sitting in a stuffy hospital room with the Colonel, of all people. He had never before sought the man out for pleasant company — banter, maybe, an easily influenced spar of wits — but never just to shoot the shit or talk about the weather. But...the last time he saw the man, he had been clinging to the Lieutenant in the midst of a chaotic battlefield, dark eyes struck near white and blind, stretched so wide as if they might bargain with the light for just a glimpse at the world around him. And he remembered, vaguely, the sound of his voice — rough and desperate, deep and strained in a way he hadn’t heard before — calling out his name just before a ringing snap and a burst of tumbling flame.

“It might do you good to get away from your brother's room for a while.” Hawkeye pressed, as gently as she could. 

An image of Alphonse’s room, of the floor littered with pages and Edward’s hands pressing uselessly into the linoleum flashed in the forefront of his mind, and Ed allowed the Lieutenant to move the contents of Mustang’s cafeteria tray onto his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of Feb. 4th 2021, this chapter has been revised and edited!


	2. Part I, Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief references to suicidal thoughts and traumatic themes.
> 
> Well. This has been a wild ride in the US as of late, with so many of us holed up at home throughout the pandemic. My classes have moved remote, as has one of my jobs, and I'm slightly overwhelmed by the oddity of it all. I decidedly don't mind the time spent at home, though. I've found myself writing more, and picking up old hobbies I've neglected for much too long. 
> 
> Anyway! I'm late for an MMO date, so I really must hurry. Thank you so much for the attention you've awarded this fic so far, and a special thank you to ap011o for leaving me a lovely comment!
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy this next chapter – until next time,  
> B.

_Roy Mustang_

When he woke in the morning, it was to a breadth of warmth settling over his face and to a careful hand tapping at his shoulder. He startled for only a moment, just before Riza bode him good morning and inquired as to how he had slept. He'd answered halfheartedly, waving away the conversation with a quiet tone and, truthfully, not very much to say. He opened his eyes — whatever good that would do, in his state — and rubbed at the inner corners with the pads of his fingers, careful to wipe away the crust of an awful sleep and leave his corneas unbothered. 

He couldn’t see, of course, but he stared forward nonetheless. He had lost that owlish look about him several days ago, when he had relaxed the efforts of his gaze and grew satisfied with the empty look he directed into the foreground of the room. He knew where he was primarily because others had informed him — Riza, most often and most notably, because her bedside sat only a few paces away from his own. Sometimes, when he woke up writhing and shouting into the wretched pillow he claimed, smoke and ash and blood filling his mouth and scorching his eyes (a new prospect, nightmares that physically caused his eyes to burn, as if he had been blasted by a wall of fire), she took up a newspaper from the table between them and read off the first trivial article she could find. It grounded him, in a way. The gossip columns seemed to have the most powerful effect, as he often found himself bothered by their petty grievances amidst his loathsome anguish. Riza would often take his ability to speak as a good sign, and would prod at a small argument, until he woke enough to reason with himself and soothe the burning wounds. 

Most nights, he wished desperately that she wasn’t there, sitting and waiting to provide him with the comfort and assurance that he rarely considered he deserved. Often, he would rather sink beneath the coming waves of sand, swallow it all whole and choke on the grains until his life sputtered out. 

Especially now, when all was in such absolute disarray. He relied on Riza and his usual subordinates to supply him with the most current information regarding the state of the nation and the progression of the military upheaval in the post-destruction of the Promised Day, but actions were taken at such a staggering pace, that even his trusted connections often delivered him notice just a moment too late, just after the next move had already been made.

It would be different if he were in the midst of the chaos. He could grasp a hold of things if only he could be there, if only he could cast his web and follow the strings as they were plucked, catch his prey and delight in the ensuing feast.

But for any of that, he would need to assess the damage. He would need to be able to confront his superiors, his betters and his lessers, and read what they’ve hidden beneath their pleasantries and their promises. 

For any of that, he would need to see.

And for now, the room and the world around him remained terribly black. At the start, it hadn’t been so frightening. If anything, it had been a great, festering sore that only worked to quicken his anger and spur him forward. Especially during the height of the fighting, as flames raged around him and immortal beings sparred against the desperate attempts of mortals. He hadn’t been able to give it a moment of thought, a moment to solidify, in those heated minutes and hours. It wasn’t until long after, when he had first found himself waking in this bed, that he truly realized that the darkness wasn’t going to disperse once he pried open his tired eyes. 

It continued to settle over him slowly, a great anxiety that roamed within the pit of his stomach and spilled cold through his veins. He struggled regardless, keeping his questions and his doubts to himself as he prepared for his eventual release. He did not let himself dwell on the possibility of permanence — on the idea of being discharged from the hospital and the military alike, honourably remembered as a man whose ambitions were stifled by an unfortunate combat injury.

It was to that effect that he filled his joint hospital room with collections of paperwork directly from his office and demanded visitations from his men. They were regularly around regardless of his orders, of course — stopping in out of the goodness of their hearts, checking in on friends and acquaintances who had been admitted after the fighting — and so they did not seem to mind the remote hours spent pouring over preparations and meticulous planning. They also didn’t seem to mind that much of what they were preparing for was beginning to look much like a fool’s wish.

This day, however, happened to be a Sunday. At the insistence of his Lieutenant, Roy had submitted to allowing his team the day to decompress. They had been moving at a mile a minute, long before the events of the Promised Day had finally surmounted, and still remained at a loss to what their futures would hold. He had been swayed to allow them this day to themselves, to visit family or friends, to enjoy the pure miracle that was the survival of the country and the people within it. It hadn’t taken much effort to be swayed, truth be told. 

But Riza remained all the same, still healing from the deep cut that had split open her throat and minding her time leisurely in the hospital. She preferred to keep a quiet presence, making sure that she made just enough noise to alert Roy to her still being there, but not so much that she disturbed whatever he may be doing. Which, honestly, was little to nothing at all, at least during this day. 

She woke him early like this near every morning. Although, considering the amount of warmth that he had felt fall across his cheeks and nose, he assumed that the hour was later than their usual. He pulled himself into a sitting position, just before a heavy knock sounded on the door. Riza pulled her hand away from his shoulder, and he conjured the image of her moving to the door frame — which was soon confirmed by the sound of a door handle turning, and her voice speaking kindly with another familiar woman. 

Roy took the time to steady himself in the bed, sitting upright with his thickly bandaged hands folded carefully in his lap. The familiar voice belonged to his regular nurse, who he assumed must have been just younger than he, if only by the high pitch and the rather charmed tone she adopted whenever speaking directly to him. He tried to image what else she may look like by cataloging the details his senses allowed him to perceive — her hands were always soft and careful, and so he assumed that she must appear rather untouched by the passage of time, not having needed to fend of the vulgarities of the world at large. The slight accent lingering in her vowels also suggested she may have been from the south or the east, which generally made him think of Havoc, and therefore awarded her a pale complexion and a head of red hair. 

He considered asking Riza to describe her to him after she left. A part of him didn’t want to know how wrong he may be, however. 

“Well, Mr. Mustang!” she chirped, “You are looking positively wonderful this morning. Your vitals seem quite alright, and some strenuous activity shouldn’t do you any harm.” 

Two other things to note about this particular nurse: she preferred to abandon his military title, and she enjoyed playing along the boundary of inappropriate behaviour. He amused himself by imagining Riza’s expression — she was still here, hearing this, after all. Speaking of...

“Thank you kindly, Ms. Beverly. That is certainly wonderful to hear, especially from a pretty young woman.” 

He might as well make the morning entertaining. He would suffer Riza’s long drawn sighs and general disdain later on in the day, but what else was an invalid to do?

Lovely Ms. Beverly seemed absolutely charmed, and laughed quite a bit as she seemed to flit about the bed he lay in. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, she was looking for. Until he heard a light clatter at the very foot of the bed, the clipboard slinging free from its overhung basket.

“Now, the usual questions for you, Mr. Mustang.” She sang as if they shared a particularly personal and clever joke. 

_Ah._ This was the part that he dreaded.

“Have you noticed any changes in your sight, between the last time we spoke and now?” 

He took a pause, stifling the urge to clench his hands. “No.”

The scratch of graphite against textured paper, the echo of the clipboard underneath — and then,“Have you been experiencing any headaches, migraines, dizziness or nausea?”

He thought, of course, of the burning in his eyes as he tore away from sleep. It could be attributed to his unique condition now, though most of his mind still considered it an effect of old wounds and pestering scars. He withheld the nightmares and the haunting memories from his consultations and check ins — as he always had, since the desecration of Ishval — but he considered it may be worthy of some note, some offhanded marking on his charts. Best keep it to a passing comment, withhold any sense of urgency. “Mild headaches, yes — on occasion.”

She hummed at that confession regardless and followed it quickly with a concise course of inquiry that allowed him briefly to elaborate on some vague soreness and blurry specifics. She scratched at her pad again, this time slightly more forcefully, but overall allowed the matter to slide as he expected she would. 

“Have you experienced any localized pain?” she asked instead. 

“No.” 

And so went the now familiar and ever-grating routine. It had carried with it a sense of urgency, and perhaps a modicum of hope within the first few days preceding that which was Promised, but by now it had faded into a dull mundanity. The questions trudged by, and Roy assumed (feared) that they would eventually grind to a halt.

(And on that day, he would likely be left to the streets with nothing more but a cheap pin attached to his lapel and all of his aspirations smothered.)

Darling Ms. Beverly seemed to be pleased, and dropped the collection of his information again into the bin that hung from the foot of his bed. She exchanged pleasantries with Riza, who offered some comment or other regarding fetching a snack, and started on her way to the door frame. 

_Kitten heels_ , Roy thought with a bemused smile, listening intently to the soft clicks left behind on the tiled floor. 

“Alright, Mr. Mustang,” the nurse sang again, punctuated by the creak of a heavy door on rusted hinges, “I’ll be around again right around lunch time. Until then, try not to get into too much trouble.”

* * *

By noontime — or, at the very least, some time after Riza had declared it so and wandered off to the cafeteria to make good on her promise of a snack — Roy had been quietly festering in his bed. Until now, his time had been occupied by a flurry of noise and active research: Falman had gifted the company with a long list of resources and references, including where they may be procured and by whose grace they’d be offered, before being unceremoniously carted off with the remainder of the Briggs company and the astounding General. Sergeant Fuery had scurried off to collect that which was listed, Second Lieutenant Breda following in his footsteps with his usual spoken grievances. The two had returned to the hospital room with great arm and bagfuls, and had dumped their treasures about the floor and set about reading them aloud to their commanding officer.

Who, right now, had next to no idea of what to do with himself. He couldn’t exactly continue the work without his usual crew — he...couldn’t read. He couldn’t do much of anything. A seething sense of frustration roiled in his gut, and he found himself worrying at his bottom lip until the bright copper taste of blood flashed across his tongue. He worried his hands, as well, picking at the bandages and working his sore fingers, wincing every time a tendon pulled at the great, puckering wounds that would soon fill his palms with little more than stiff, abrasive scar tissue.

He had just about fancied the idea of stumbling to the window and swinging it open (he wondered idly and morosely what consequences may follow him _jumping_ ), when the door handle seemed to have an awful fit — it clattered obnoxiously within the door and seemed to struggle to turn. 

Roy had only a moment to realize the wash of cold that swept from the crown of his head to the balls of his feet was _fear_. With Riza away, he had no eyes — what good could he do against an intruder he couldn’t see? 

But the door swung open, and with it came a slew of muttered curses, and the familiar echo of mismatched feet scuffing the tile floor. 

“Fullmetal?” he asked, with what he had hoped would be an affronted tone. He stumbled over the intention, however, far more preoccupied with the resounding sense of relief that arrived in the wake of a familiar presence, chasing away the gnawing (albeit short lived) terror. His hands had clenched miserably into fists, and he calmed his fraying nerves by relaxing the damned things and soothing the ache from his flesh. His gaze had drifted towards the doorway, and he attempted to fix his unseeing eyes upon the eldest Elric brother as the young man’s steps overtook the space between the door and Roy’s bedside. He stopped just short of the curtain that, when drawn, separated the two present beds.

He scoffed. And then, “My eyes are up here, you know.”

Roy only blinked, perhaps a little slowly, perhaps a little lost. Edward groaned, “What, you really think I’m that below you? You’re about eye level with my pecs right now.” 

_Ah ha_. Roy readjusted seamlessly, raising the line of his sight just so, hoping that his gaze now met the young man’s. Well, he hoped that they settled somewhere about his face, at the very least.

“My apologies,” he drawled, “you were so terribly difficult to see beyond the height of my desk, before, and this certainly hasn’t helped matters.”

Edward, surprisingly, barked a laugh instead of hissing venom and vile threats. His footsteps sounded again — his metal foot thumping loudly, even more so than what was to be expected — and Roy tried to train the direction of his gaze on the movement he pictured. He ended with his head turned to the left, held just above his shoulder, and Edward’s voice much closer. 

“Looks like you’re staring at my left ear, now,” Edward teased, “but that’s an improvement.” And with that, he seemed to put something down on a table nearby (the side table? That was likely) and settled into a chair that skittered across the floor and screeched under his weight. “Damn, these things suck in every room. Good to know rank isn’t buying you luxury.” 

It sounded as if Edward was settling in, and all things considered, Roy couldn’t begin to perceive his motives. He found himself sitting in relative silence instead, cataloging the sounds that emanated from Fullmetal’s direction. Fumbling, mostly. Chewing? Oh, a _plunk_ and a curse — he dropped something on the floor. Roy sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to let it be. Or continue to consume it, naive to the mysterious and egregiously disgusting nature of a hospital floor. No, he should know better than that. At the very least, Roy could imagine Alphonse beating that particular knowledge of self preservation into him. 

_Alphonse._ For a beat, Roy feared the possibility that Edward was here because something had happened to his brother. Why else would he have left his side? But, no, that was preposterous – if something ill had indeed befallen the younger Elric, Edward wouldn’t be here, calm and unassuming. He would be scarring the world with his grief, no doubt (which was an image he had the displeasure of imagining on the battlefield, when Riza had choked on a stricken and awful sound, and whispered dreadfully to Roy what Alphonse had given for Edward’s arm). 

“Here,” Edward said gruffly, breaking the wandering thoughts of one Roy Mustang with the weight of one hand now on his hospital bed, “Hawkeye got you a snack. I guess you’ve been a good boy.”

Disregarding the attempt at antagonization, Roy frowned. “You ran into the Lieutenant?” 

Edward huffed an affirmative, the weight remaining in place just beside Roy’s thigh. “She found me while I was grabbing lunch. Wanted to see Alphonse; she asked me to bring this back for you. Do you want it?”

That certainly made a fair amount of sense. Vaguely, Roy was aware that Riza had been going fairly stir-crazy, confined in this plain and oppressing room while the world turned around them without allowing a pause even the length of a sigh. And it would be good to see how Alphonse was faring, to witness the miracle of a journey completed. 

Roy was surprised to find that he felt almost wounded when realizing he wouldn’t be able to see it for himself. _Witnessing_ a miracle may have done him well.

Edward seemed to fidget, the hand he rested on the linens jumping, growing impatient. Roy allowed his reach to wander towards the weight he’d registered, grasping gently until he met with more than empty air. When his fingers brushed against calloused knuckles, he flinched away — just barely, but he was sure Edward must have noticed — but Edward only shifted to press a plastic cup against the older man’s bandaged palms. Roy accepted the gesture without comment, grasping the cup carefully and pulling it up to his nose. He sniffed it lightly (Heavens forbid this be a prank), and startled at the smell of apples. 

“There’s this, too,” Edward took his hand away, and in a moment replaced it. This time, Roy could reach for what the other held without guidance, and found himself with both a cup of apples and a cup of peanut butter. He balanced the latter on his lap, and began tucking thin slices in before chewing them whole. Edward seemed to laugh beside him, and Roy raised an eyebrow in his general direction. After a moment without a response, Edward spoke again, and seemed to be a bit chagrined.

“Ugh, sorry, you can’t see that — it was nothing, nothing.” 

Roy hummed thoughtfully. After a few more slices, he raised his gaze again to where he hoped Edward’s eyes were. “Thank you for taking up one of the Lieutenant’s chores.”

That earned him a haughty scoff.

“No problem. I know how to babysit.”

Another apple slice in, and the two lapsed into relative silence. Edward seemed to be eating, himself, and Roy found he didn’t mind the quiet company. He couldn’t think of a time in which this had happened before. They had spent time together, sure, briefly and often in the company of others — those times had always been loud and antagonizing, however. This was significantly more subdued. Calm. Comfortable, almost. Perhaps this was natural, when in the company of a fellow invalid, as Roy was shocked to remember that Edward was technically considered as such. It was difficult to connect the word with Fullmetal, considering his mile high feats and ever larger presence, but it was true regardless. Which also led Roy to remember just what else Edward had lost, aside from his left leg. Better to focus on what he gained — which, speaking of...

“May I ask after Alphonse’s condition?” Roy asked, hoping it was phrased delicately enough, even within the air of nonchalance it was wrapped.

Edward grunted around a bite of food, and Roy offered him a few moments of patience. Eventually, Edward sighed, so quietly that Roy wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t relying solely on auditory input, and fell into a halting response. “He’s stable. Doing well with all the...medical, shit, they have him strung up on. That’s what they keep repeating, at least. He’s got some weight back, and it does look like it, even if he’s still...thin. He just looks small. Right now. And stuck through. Like some weird...I don’t know. He’s been sleeping. I’m just waiting for him to wake up right now.” 

Roy was fairly certain that the pauses in Edward’s speech were accompanied by the movement of his hands, and he tried to imagine the young man as he spoke. He pictured eyes that wouldn’t meet his own, a braid falling over a shoulder and then down his back as he shook his head. Anxious. Unsure. Not at all like the combative, daring attitude he usually exuded, all focused gaze and shoulders drawn up high. Roy caught himself frowning, and tried to smooth the expression away. 

“I’m sure he’ll wake up soon, Fullmetal.” Edward made some noncommittal sound, and Roy had the unfortunate feeling that that wasn’t what he should have said. He could offer little else than his own well wishes, however, and found himself generally at a loss. For a moment, caught on the thought of Alphonse, he remembered again the moment in which the world had lost the younger Elric, and Edward had then pummeled the visage of a god into absolute nothingness with one good arm and one...not so good, he largely assumed. But it couldn’t have been so terribly out of sorts, if it was able to deliver such furious and downright lethal blows?

“Your arm,” he found himself speaking without much thought, “how is it?” 

“Oh,” Edward seemed to muse. “The new...uh, old one? It’s alright. Pretty thin. No real muscle mass — just skin and bone and really angry with me for all the bullshit I put it through.” He sounded almost sheepish towards the end, which was another unfamiliar prospect for the image of Edward Elric that Roy had constructed over the years. He found himself unmistakably curious, however, and attempted to picture the limb in his mind. His imaginings were nothing short of comical.

“I assume it looks...forgive me, but it must look quite odd against the rest of you. Am I mistaken?” 

Edward, surprising Roy again, broke into a genuine laugh. It lasted a few, quite warm moments, and Roy found himself flushed with embarrassment. He couldn’t help that he had no way to _see_ the damn thing. Edward pulled himself back together slowly, containing the boisterous laughter with a contented chuckle. And then, for a moment, he paused, as if he were considering some great wonder of the universe. That likely wasn’t unusual, for one of the Elric brothers. They seemed to excavate and unravel the mysteries of human existence in their spare time. Or at the very least, thrice every decade. And then Roy heard the distinct unraveling of bandages and linen, and he found himself slightly startled by the sound. Soon after, he heard something soft and padded flop onto the floor, and his brows knitted in confusion. His gaze followed the sound unbidden, his neck craning to the floor as if he might perceive something useful, and then the entirety of Edward Elric’s considerable weight settled on the hospital bed beside him. His head snapped up to where he thought Edward’s may be, but when he attempted to shout his offensives, he only inhaled a mouthful of hair.

“Scoot, Mustang,” Edward laughed as Roy sputtered and attempted to shimmy out of the way without pressing too much of his own weight onto his bandaged hands. Roy frowned at the sudden invasion of his personal space, ready to bite at the complete lack of decorum and obstinate insubordination, when Edward’s right arm was laid out gently atop his lap. 

Roy could do little more than freeze. Agonizing seconds passed.

“It’s just an arm, you bastard.” Edward hissed. And something about his tone (something almost shameful, something quiet and hurt) struck at Roy, and he found himself reaching carefully for the limb-from-the-aether. Some part of him thought back to the empty expanse of space before the Gate, and recoiled at the invasive memory of reaching and tearing throngs of incorporeal hands, but his logical mind reassured his paranoia that what sat on his lap was nothing more than a thin and particularly light appendage. A natural appendage, despite its unnatural journey between here and there and nowhere.

When his fingertips found purchase on Edward’s skin, he was surprised by just how _soft_ it was. He must have made some sort of sound, because he heard Edward laugh beneath his breath, and felt the tension sap away from the body beside him. Wonder overtaking any sense of modesty, he found himself trailing his fingers along the paths of veins, up and down the inside of Edward’s forearm and elbow, stopping to trace the raised surfaces of scattered moles (beauty marks, as his foster mother’s women called them so often). He noticed when Edward shivered and goosebumps sprung up all along his bare arm, but thought little of it, overwhelmed again by the truly miraculous feats that he and his brother had accomplished. Roy traced his fingers to Edward’s palm, and then along the outline of the young man’s fingers, cracking an unguarded smile when he brushed against thin and sensitive areas and each digit twitched involuntarily. 

It was truly a marvel, an object of impossible determination, and the inspiration for an unfathomable well of hope that seemed to infect the entirety of those Edward came into contact with.

Roy spent an amount of time that he dared not dwell on exploring the arm that Edward offered him, coming back to himself only when Edward made a discomforted noise. He apologized, worried that he had caused some measure of pain throughout his unabashed molestation (which he would later remember and feel great embarrassment over), but Edward only waived away the apology. He gathered his arm but made no immediate move to leave the bed he was sitting on. 

“There,” he stated, rather loudly and as if something may have been caught in his throat beforehand. “Now you've seen the damn thing.”

Roy smiled at that, and allowed himself to laugh – softly, more so content than amused or entertained. He found himself oddly grateful for Edward’s generous attempt and for the familiarity he had allowed. “That is one way to see something, I suppose.”

“Well, look at you!” Edward shouted then, jostling the bed. And Roy, as startled by the outburst as he was, almost swore he could see the blinding grin that split across the young man’s expression. He imagined it as a smirk, roguish and clever, as Edward teasingly continued, “You’re not a one trick pony after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I tend to edit each previous chapter just before the next is posted to fix up any small mistakes I may have missed beforehand. Thought I would let everyone know, if they weren't so happy with my handiwork.


	3. Part I, Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have countless apologies to offer for my neglect of this fiction, but I’m hoping this posting will be apology enough. As always, my life was overwhelmed soon after I’d resolved to writing more and none of my hopes were fulfilled. Here’s to another try and another promise to attempt consistency here out. 
> 
> With that thought in mind, this is still unbeta’d, although I’ve been considering figuring out how to change that. For now, I hope my own revisions have sufficed.

_Edward Elric_

_What the fuck?_

He hissed to himself with all of the ire and venom of a young man particularly caught off guard by a heavy wave of embarrassment. He fell back against the closed door of the Bastard’s shared hospital room with a softened thump, face flushed and jagged teeth worrying ruthlessly at his lips. He’d fled the room shortly after allowing — for some Truth-be-damned reason far beyond his comprehension — his thin and feeble little miracle arm to be essentially _molested_ by his commanding officer. 

He cradled it awkwardly to his chest, now, wraps and bandages still unwound and hanging haphazardly from his grasp. He’d left the cafeteria tray on the bedside table, crumbs and empty cups stacked and waiting for someone with better sense and sight and _state of mind_ to return them to where they belonged.

He had no idea what he’d been thinking. It was half impulse, half curious desire to push a familiar boundary, one that already seemed so absent in the alien setting they found themselves in, that encouraged Ed to jump up on the Colonel’s bed in the first place. He’d almost instantly regretted it, when the older man recoiled and sputtered and _caught Ed’s hair in his mouth_ (what the _fuck_ ), but his unweilding stubbornness spurned him forward regardless. 

He’d admit to himself and never out loud that part of his actions had been inspired by an instinctual and powerful aversion to the near tragic expression on the Colonel’s face. The Flame Alchemist, who he had very recently talked down from a proverbial edge that had looked an awful lot like an act of divine Wrath if he’d ever seen one (features shadowed by the coiling flames, slate eyes dark and roiling with a grieving fury that had genuinely...well, terrified him), now sat quiet and awash beneath a swathe of pale linens. His hands had been wrapped in so many layers of gauze that they’d looked damn near like paws slumped lifelessly in his lap with only the newly calloused flesh of his fingers peeking through. And he’d startled when Edward had bullied himself into the room, paled to the shade of a ghost and set his wide, sightless eyes darting about towards the sound. He’d schooled his face in just a blink, but not before Ed had nearly taken a picture.

God, the Bastard looked lost, like a fucking kicked puppy. He’d done everything he could to deserve praise and admiration and he’d been punished irregardless, a swift kick dealt behind his ears. 

Later, after an especially awkward and civil conversation on both of their parts, _what the fuck else_ was he suppose to do when he realized the Bastard was trying to paint a pretty picture of something ( _anything_ ) that someone had managed to gain from the spectacular clusterfuck that was their soirée with a would-be deity?

So Ed has just...bullied himself next to the fucker and dropped his skin-and-bone limb onto the man’s lap. It’s the shit that happened in stories, right, when someone was blind? Touch to see? He had an inkling it was usually a lot more intimate and likely involved faces more so than once-phantom limbs, but he’d squashed that particular vein of thought down right quick and just...waited. Impatiently, when the old man just wasn’t taking the hint. 

And then he _had_ finally gotten the memo, and it had been _fucking weird_ . Ed’d expected that, of course, he wasn’t stupid (shut up) — but it was...weird in ways he wasn’t expecting and pleasant in ways that made it even weirder. Most of it could be chalked up to the fact that the damn arm had been constricted for so long, it was pins and needles throughout the entire ordeal. He was hesitant to flex it, considering the Colonel’s new jumpy habits and inclination to snap first (gauze paws be damned), and eventually he was downright _desperate_ to keep it _still_. 

He hadn’t felt much at first, when Mustang had _very_ carefully pressed the pads of his fingertips to the pale skin (they’d near matched in tone, actually, which almost shocked Ed into snorting a laugh). It was just pressure poking through the overwhelming sensory noise of blood rushing back into the limb. But as the numbness subsided, and the Bastard seemed to abandon any reservations about actively feeling up his younger subordinates flesh from the Gate returned, it was fucking... _a lot_. 

Flush nowhere near having subsided, Ed shook his head violently, chasing away the memory. It was just like...like fucking, Braille or _whatever_ . He’d wanted Mustang to be able to see and then he had and it was over with. He didn’t regret it, at least. He’d just conveniently neglect to mention it _ever_ having happened to _any_ stranger or friend or loved one he’d _ever_ known. It was fine, swell and dandy. 

Somewhere throughout his obsessive repetition of the moment, Edward had managed to march down the hospital corridor and past the cafeteria space, bypass a crowded lift and barrel his way into the stairwell. He was just exiting it now, having jogged up several flights of steps to the floor Alphonse’s room was on, and made a beeline for the solid grey door. 

Some part of him quietly hoping that Alphonse would have woken in the Lieutenant's company (even if Edward hadn’t been there to witness the moment), he shouldered the door carefully as he entered, peeking in through the crack between painted wood and frame. 

Lt. Hawkeye was sitting in one of the rickety steel chairs, peacefully reading a rather dry and technical line from a small, leather bound academic text. It was a book left behind by the Curtis’ before their inevitable departure, one of the many little travel sized texts that Teacher often kept on her person. Sig carried similar books, but most were handwritten or herbal journals, notes to himself regarding work or sweet little notes of love from his devil of a wife. He’d actually read one to Ed, once, on a rare occasion in Dublith when both young Elric boys had gotten sick. They hadn’t been able to rest, too occupied by the endless books on alchemical theory and practice to calm their minds. Sig had sat in the small guest bed sandwiched between the two, one thick arm wrapped about Alphonse’s small frame and patting gently at his side, the other holding his small book as close as he could manage while still keeping it gently leveled on Edward’s small shoulder. He’d read with a heavy and deep voice, the words rather meaningless and irreverent, but his tone so soft and soothing that the Elrics had finally drifted off to sleep. 

The Lieutenant's steady reading came to a slow halt before she snapped the book shut, turning back to the open door with a gentle smile. “I hope he didn’t trouble you,” she stated dryly, the hint of a joke dangling on the edge of her tone. 

Ed snorted, shoving the rest of the way into the room with little decorum, hastening his path to the cot nested between Alphonse’s bed and the wide, south facing window. “Only as much as the Bastard usually does. You have a good time with Al?” 

A twinkle in her eye joined the smile, “Your brother has always been pleasant company.” _The far more pleasant brother of the two_ , a jab left unspoken that Ed could clearly imagine. Then, with a particularly pinched look she asked, “is your arm alright?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Ed floundered at the pitch of his voice, realizing with a viscous return of his blush that his arm was still crudely undressed. “I— couldn’t exactly ask Mustang to redress this, after— I got enough fucking _grease_ in the wrap to fry my next meal myself, aha!” And he held the arm out awkwardly, as if insisting that Lt. Hawkeye witness the truth of his words. She raised a single brow and stood from her chair, hands outstretched and beckoning for the mess of dressings Ed still carried. He handed them over obligingly, though he left his sling draped over his shoulder. 

“Do you have more in the room?” The Lieutenant asked, turning already away from Edward and depositing the used bandages in a bin. Ed pointed her towards a plastic container set on the short countertop across from the foot of the bed, just beside the bathroom door. She rummaged through the bin but retrieved little more than a frown. “I’ll have to send for your nurse,” which should have sounded fairly plain, but the terseness of her voice implied a stabbing observation, a disappointment in Edward’s neglect of personal care. 

He smiled sheepishly, clutching his weak arm tighter. The Lieutenant sighed. “Well, I’ll have to take my leave — I’ll call for the nurse on my way, but I have a check up to attend.” 

Ed paid no mind to her having to leave, surprised by the time spent already and unbothered by being overtaken by other priorities. _Yeah, of course, no problem,_ he assured her, but she paused at the door again on her way. 

“I was glad for the chance to visit Alphonse and to see you both. And I hope your visit with the Colonel wasn’t too burdensome. I suppose...well. I hope we’ll both be seeing you again soon, Edward.” 

Her footsteps had already faded by the time he realized the softness of her tone, the deeper meaning behind her casual goodbye. 

He had been so caught up in his desperate, gnawing wait to see Alphonse wake that he neglected to take stock of all that had changed in the background. His alchemy—...was a sore spot, and he’d chosen so far to put it out of his mind, overwhelming the threat of panic or grief by the suffocating joy and relief that his brothers return from the Gate readily brought. But in the quiet and still moments, when he burst from the depth of nightmares still gasping and choking on worry and fear, the anxiety and sinking loss crept in. 

But beside that looming and irrefutable detail (or, because of it, really), he realized his journey was over. The Elric Brothers had regained their bodies, the Fullmetal Alchemist had decked a god and ended a country-wide massacre, earning himself an early retirement by consequence of his last dealing with the Truth. If he didn’t want to step foot in the Bastard’s office again, he wouldn’t have to. Well, there might be some paperwork to hammer out, but he’d never be so generous as to do _all_ of the work for the man — Mustang could handle that part. 

Well...that’s what he’d always expected, at least. But Edward turned his eyes down to the thin arm he still held tight to his chest, his fingertips still twitching on their own mysterious accord, and the image of Roy Mustang — the esteemed and conniving Flame Alchemist, unbearable and smarmy upstart, bathed in soft sunlight that did nothing to chase the shadows from his face as he sightlessly drew the map of Edward’s palm with his gauze-padded hands — grasped something deep in his stomach and _twisted_.

A knock at the door made Edward jump, and his grimace fell away as a nurse fluttered into the room, a new supply of bandages and dressings tucked up on her hip. She closed the door quickly behind her, dead set on the empty space beside Ed’s unfortunately positioned cot. She deposited her burden graciously before leveling a heated stare at the infamous (non)Alchemist.

Ed had the sneaking suspicion that he should recognize the woman, but his hurried glances at her features — some wrinkles clawing out from the edges of her eyes, a few stray grey hairs slipping free of her wreathed braid — didn’t enlighten him any. 

“A Miss Lt. Hawkeye so graciously informed me that _you,_ Mister Elric, could use a hand.” She said, stuffing her hands into the basket of medicinal supplies she’d carried in and retrieving the usual necessities. “It would also seem that you _didn’t_ inform her that you have a _well_ prepared,” she accentuated the word with a tug on his cot, pulling it out of the tight space and near tossing Ed backwards in the process, “supply of bandages and the like in your _own_ , room, hm?” 

_Fuck,_ Ed thought, realizing as he righted himself why this particular nurse looked so familiar. She’d been assigned to his bed, essentially— tasked with seeing him to his appointments, redressing and cataloging his wounds, nursing him back to health. But he’d abandoned his room early on, stubbornly neglecting her pushing and her chasing in order to spend all of his time with his quiet and sleeping brother. Countless appointments and sessions she’d tried to corral him into, countless times he managed to thwart her attempts and barricade himself behind a wall of Alphonse. At one point, each of them had been so intent on foiling the plans of the other that things had gotten physical, with Edward treating the familiar hall just outside as an obstacle course and this particular nurse as a hindrance to be overcome. He’d knocked her spectacles askew in the vault and forgotten, mid maneuver, _not_ to stick the landing on his _emaciated arm_ . His weak hand had hit the linoleum and rocketed _pain_ through the rest of his body, and he’d crumpled into Alphonse’s room in a trembling heap. He’d “won”, but he’d also been knocked out on heavy painkillers afterwards.

Seeing the woman’s spectacles now, hanging from the collar of her shirt and mocking him quietly, reminded Ed of his most recent episode — the incident with the passing nurse this morning, who so often arrived between breakfast and noontime, well-meaning and determined to offer care but assuredly overwhelmed by Edward’s own insistence. He couldn’t fucking help it, it was his _baby_ _brother_ in that bed, he’d be damned if he wasn’t the one to take care of him _now_. 

But he was really being a fucking asshole, if he thought about it. He couldn’t even remember each of their _names_.

The Spectacles-Nurse huffed, “I didn’t think so,” and, seeming satisfied by Ed’s quiet chagrin, took his weakened arm carefully into her hands. 

“Mr. Elric — you haven’t been to a single one of your appointments or physical therapy sessions in several days.”

As if he needed the reminder. Ed looked away petulantly as the nurse tested his arm, running her fingers along the length of his forearm and up the curve of his biceps. She used both hands to grasp his arm gently, bending it at the elbow and stretching it taught again. Edward, meanwhile, fought to keep the memory of that _rat_ Bastard’s touch out of the forefront of his mind. He didn’t need to be comparing the sensations, the spark that followed the press of his commanding officer’s thumb in the dip of his elbow measured against the complete lack of recognition that came after the nurse’s prodding. That was...especially odd, though, for the sensations to be so different. Ed frowned at the snag in his thoughts, glancing at his arm peripherally as it was poked and prodded and maneuvered. It was in that way that he noticed a similar expression on the Nurse’s face, a near imperceptible dip in her brow.

Noticing his gaze, she dipped her hands again into the near collection of bandages, starting the wrap carefully on Edward’s arm with deft fingers and practiced efficiency. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, not until Edward attempted to look back towards his sleeping brother. 

“I don’t mean to cause alarm,” she started, “especially when you have been so mindful of and caring towards your brother — I _understand_ that his condition is worrisome, and frightening, but he is safe and tended to by the best Central has to offer.”

He knew that, really. It was an irrefutable fact. The greatest dangers either of them had ever faced had since passed, and all of the threats they currently faced — threats of health and sickness — were best seen to by the staff here. Sure, there had been some hiccups in the beginning (that tends to happen when you introduce not one, but _two_ medical anomalies to a population of medical nerds), but overall they’d received nothing but genuine and professional attention. But he couldn’t fight his fear, or his need to _do_ something. The nurse continued her heart to heart, but Ed had turned fully towards his brother, intent on discovering the resolution to all of their troubles on his sleeping figure. 

“In the meantime, _your_ condition has yet to improve, and that fact is cause enough for great concern. Your minor cuts and scrapes have healed, save for that bit of a gash on your forehead, although it has scarred nicely, but you arm is troubling me. Your range of motion was limited to start with, but it has almost seemed to regress...and this twitching, here in your fingers? That is certainly out of the ordinary, even for your... _unique_ condition. You _must_ attend your next appointment with the physician, or I fear...Mr. Elric, are you listening?”

He had been. Really, he’d been listening earnestly, resigned to a tongue lashing by the older woman. But at one point, as she spoke and strung the wide cloth between his fingers and around his pink knuckles, he’d thought again of Colonel Mustang’s hands — bare only in the fingers, pale poking through the padding of layered gauze and tape — tracing the shape of his own, and he’d stared at Alphonse’s resting hands in the hopes of chasing the image away. 

He’d stared and the golden light of the afternoon had spilled into the room in a honey wash, alighting the linens that lay piled overtop his brother. He’d stared just as the light had reached his sleeping face, glinting off of the plastic secured around his mouth and nose, fogging with every wet breath. He’d stared and, in a moment almost too short to have been caught, he saw Al’s right hand twitch.

“Mr. Elric?” 

He couldn’t breath, every heartbeat and bone creak and ache of his muscles halted in time, waiting for another movement. He swore, he fucking _swore_ he hadn’t imagined it— _there, there!_

Edward jolted away from the Nurse, ignorant to the startled and indignant noise she made as the cot suddenly rolled away. He stepped forward quietly, irrationally afraid that if he moved too quickly, if he upset the moment by some careless action, reality would cease to include the possibility that _Alphonse was waking up_. 

When he reached the bedside, he knelt as far as he was able — both elbows dug into the bed, holding what weight they could that couldn’t be pressed into the bed rail, one of his knees bent only slightly and the other near touching the ground — and placed his newly bandaged palm atop his brothers twitching hand. 

“Alphonse?” He near whispered. The silence that followed was deafening, the anticipation and desperate hope for a response settling heavy and thick in the air of the room. Edward stared, and stared, and ignored the burning in his miracle limb as it cried and shook under his weight. It could wait, it could all wait, he couldn’t do anything until Alphonse—

Moved his eyes. Beneath his lids, thin as they were, Ed could see when they jerked and moved. Like waking from a dream, Alphonse seemed to sigh, squinting at the harsh fluorescent light and the shining sun outside as he squinted, and blinked, and opened his eyes _wide_.

Edward fucking cried. For the second time in _fuck_ knew how long, he felt fat and heavy and _embarrassing_ tears spill from the rims of his eyes and soak the grin that split his cheeks. And Alphonse, his sweet and beautiful and _whole_ baby brother, turned his head to the side and settled his wandering gaze on Edward. Alphonse smiled, and his eyes — bright and speckled with remnants of crystalline green, the memory of their mother — grew glassy and swollen, a trembling smile under the oxygen mask. Even from underneath the damning thing, Edward could hear his brother’s croaking voice as he struggled to speak.

“Hi, Ed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roy, raising his gauze paws: Like, Nyah.


End file.
